<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>headed vaguely eastward by CloudDreamer</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29135748">headed vaguely eastward</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudDreamer/pseuds/CloudDreamer'>CloudDreamer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>through the looking glass [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Blaseball (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Background Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Grief/Mourning, Grieving for an abuser, Heavensmaw Lars Taylor, Heavensmaw Moonrays (Blaseball Team), Mirror Universe, Non-Canonical Character Death, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Paradise Lost, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery &amp; Symbolism, Seattle Garages (Blaseball Team), Sign Language, Smoking, Star Child Lars Taylor, Survivor Guilt, The Seattle Garages Kidnap Heavensmaw Lars, Wings, graveyard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:14:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,502</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29135748</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudDreamer/pseuds/CloudDreamer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Lars Taylor visits a grave.</p><p>Recommended Listening: Wild Sage by the Mountain Goats</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lars Taylor &amp; Betsy Trombone, Sandoval Crossing &amp; Lars Taylor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>through the looking glass [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2144031</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>headed vaguely eastward</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>tws in tags but more specifically: this is a fic about grieving for an abuser and the complicated, often contradictory and not necessarily healthy emotions/thought patterns that come with that. also, betsy's smoking is referenced and i'm reading paradise lost for english class, so there's an excessive amount of religious references in here.</p><p>(specific details of the au in the end notes for anyone not familiar.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lars stands outside the graveyard for a long time, a hand hovering above the gate. His wings spread out above and around him, a halo of silver feathers protecting his body from the rain as it starts to fall. They’re going to get soaked through, but he’s not afraid of that anymore. There’ll be hot chocolate waiting for him and a warm fire, if he wants it, back at Betsy’s place. There might also be her hand in his or stroking his wings, if he’s okay with that. She always asks if he’s okay with that. All of the Garages do. </p><p>Betsy’s sitting back in her car now, only one of her earbuds in and feet on the sides of the steering wheel, humming along to one of the older songs. No cigarettes this time. She says she’s trying to quit now, which is something she hasn’t tried before. The others don’t talk about it, but he knows how to pick up cues. He knows they’re surprised, and they look at him like it’s his fault. </p><p>He pulls down, the force startling him, and he swallows as the rusted gate swings open, trying to keep from showing how startled he is. Then he tries to show it, because he doesn’t need to be afraid of that when nobody is around and not anymore at all. Now his face is all confused, so he just steps forward and lets it all melt away like shapes traced with the tips of wings on car windows through long drives obscured too quickly for anyone to see them. He pulls his wings through the doorway that wasn’t meant for someone of his shape, delicately keeping them from brushing against the cold rusted metal. </p><p>The hinges squeal, and he doesn’t like the sound. But he doesn’t like the absence of sound even more. Sometimes there is no winning, with his mind. He tries not to resent it for that. The rain is falling, and there are worse memories here than a bit of startling sound. He crosses past rows and rows of stone memorials. Each is engraved with a name and date, a bowl that’ll never be full no matter how many tributes are left there. Some have flowers left in front of them. Some don’t. Lars doesn’t carry anything with him. He doesn’t have anything to give to Sandoval, outside of words he never could’ve given his captain when they were still here. He thought about it, but…</p><p>If he did give something, then he’d know they’d only have critique for it. They’d demand better. They always demanded better. He likes to think maybe they’ve changed, since he escaped and they died, but he doubts it. Sandoval was a pillar for the team. Unchangeable. At least. That’s how they presented themself, and maybe that’s not how they really were. But he never got a chance to see anything else. </p><p>He never saw anything that wasn’t polished to a point so sharp that it left him bleeding. His wings still at that thought, his legs not moving forward, just for a moment, as he tries to remind himself that he is here. He finds a nearby grave, reads the name and epigraph and date, then reads the name and epigraph and date again, until they start being words. Then Lars blinks away the rain that’s getting in his face. At least, he thinks that’s rain. </p><p>Does rain hurt like this, in his chest? Even now, he struggles to find words for what’s what, with this body that feels too big for him. His shadow is too long, stretching out behind him and betraying his presence. He’d rather walk this world like a ghost, with nothing to touch and nothing to hurt, sometimes. Sometimes he knows that isn’t true. </p><p>He starts moving again. He has the location of Sandoval’s grave memorized by now, he thinks. He has everything abut them memorized, and those memories are sharp like a knife, but not like one of Betsy’s plain and serviceable knives, most frequently used to cut into warm bread fresh out of the oven to pass around despite how often she postures for violence. Those memories are blades of iron, and they burn long after Lars leaps away from them. </p><p>But he lets them burn for now. He finds the white marble structure. Most of the other graves are not this fancy. They are obligatory. The first few were spectacular, of course, competitions between teams to see who could perform the most newsworthy grief, but the news got tired of that feud a few seasons in. So…</p><p>This graveyard is touched by the shadows. It is through the mirror enough that Betsy can’t come in, but not all the way through. This place is— two thirds in the reflection’s direction. Lars could cross all the way through, if he wanted to, though, him, Mike, and Goodwin. They’re touched by the veil between the worlds, and it is soft for them. He would worry about being taken back, if he didn’t know for a fact none of the reflected teams come here. Not unless there’s been a new death. They mourn in private or they do not mourn at all. </p><p>He thinks that is a bit sad. He also thinks he is pathetic for coming here at all, so really, who’s worse off?</p><p>He does not settle down to sit in front of Sandoval’s grave. It would be disrespectful, and then he would be compelled to kneel. Well. His body would compel him to. He knows his wears his body like clothes that have shrunk in the wash, and he tries not to resent it when it tries to fall into old habits. He tries— even though he’s aware that how easily he folds only serves to set him so much further apart from the Garages. They are so strong. </p><p>A lot of their strength is from fear. They are prone to lash out and position themselves as stronger than they are, but Lars sometimes wishes he was unhealthy enough to lash out. If their bark is worse than their bite, then Lars is a whimper and no bite at all. He is still unwilling to even accept that what he experiences is trauma, still determined to use that word only to describe the experiences of people who have been <i>really</i> hurt. </p><p>He stands instead. He forces his hands into his pockets, keeps his attention on his wings to keep most of them up and protective so they don’t slide back instinctively. He doesn’t want to make them small. He doesn’t want to be nonthreatening anymore. He wants to be what the Garages see in him. </p><p>Strong. </p><p>He signs a greeting, with some of his smaller wings, and then he doesn’t sign anything for a good second. He’s not sure what else to say, where to begin. There is no response. There’s never any response. He knows from stories that have been passed on from Jaylen that the dead cannot hear what people say at their graves, that any handwritten message on a paper left as tribute will be smudged or torn apart in the translation, and he’s sure that sign language definitely wouldn’t. He doesn’t want one. He thinks he might never have gotten the courage to come visit Sandoval if there was a chance they could find out about it. </p><p>Still, he choses his words like they can hear. </p><p>“It’s been a while,” he signs. He could make excuses and explanations. He doesn’t want to. Not anymore. “I didn’t want to see you again. My head was bad and thinking of you would’ve made things worse. And everyone was angry at you. The Garages, I mean. Of course that’s who I mean. They’re my the others now.” </p><p>He flushes a bit at that, at how strongly he moves as he makes those signs. The Garages are his and he is theirs, but he isn’t theirs like he was the Moonray’s. He doesn’t have the words for it, but he has the warmth all over instead of the cold that doesn’t quit to show for it. </p><p>“I’m still not really sure what changed. I’m not better. I’m not fixed. I don’t think what’s wrong with me — what you did to me — can be fixed.” </p><p>He swallows. It’s cold here, even beneath the layers of feather, the coat Malik bought for him one cold Seattle night when he’d said it looked nice in the store window, the warm knit sweater that Goodwin made for him, and the long sleeve shirt that Lori said would look better on him than it would on her. When he’d tried to refuse it, she’d cut open the back for his wings herself. </p><p>“Maybe that’s it. Maybe I know that it’s you now.”</p><p>That’s wrong, and he knows it’s wrong as his hands go through the motions. </p><p>“I still don’t know that. I mean, I know it, but I don’t really believe it. Not like everyone else does. They look at me and they see a person, like you never did. And I don’t believe that either. I’m more like you than I am like them.”</p><p>He wants that to feel wrong, but those words settle on his shoulders more naturally than kindness. He knows he did something to be cast down with Sandoval. His guilt is carved in all the scars they left on his body. The Garages hear that, and they curse heaven’s justice system. They talk about mental health and economic systems and incentive and all these words he’s not ready to hear. They promise they’ll tear it down the right way. They don’t want to put themselves upon that golden throne. They want to melt it down altogether, to make something good, and that is supposed to be wrong. No, not wrong. Impossible to consider. It was never even a thought in Sandoval’s mind. Lars doesn’t know what he thinks justice is. </p><p>He knows who and what owned him. He knows what justice was to them. </p><p>He knows what it means to be redeemed. </p><p>“I hope you aren’t hurting. Wherever you are. They say that Jaylen says that the Hall isn’t that bad, if you don’t fight it. But I think you are hurting. I don’t think you know how not to fight. Because you’re afraid. You’ve been afraid for a long time.” </p><p>Lars thought he knew what fear looked like. He thought it looked like quiet and cold and empty corners. But in Sandoval, fear was holding someone else tight enough to bruise because he couldn’t let go of what he lost. And they felt powerful when Lars wasn’t. He was the one thing they could control.</p><p>“And that’s hard. It is hard being afraid and alone. I’m still afraid, a lot of the time. I’m afraid and I’m alone even when I’m not alone because of what you did. I know I hurt people once. I know I made them feel the same way you make me feel everyday, even though you’re dead and you can’t hurt me anymore.”</p><p>They can’t. </p><p>They can’t hurt him anymore. </p><p>“You’re gone, and that is a good thing. It means you can’t hurt anyone else. I hope I haven’t hurt anyone else.”</p><p>He looks at the name. He doesn’t lean over to trace the words, even though he wants to, because he wants to be able to stand back up. Sandoval Crossing. A date that he can’t quite record to memory, the same way all of these dates work, and three simple words. Rest in glory. Not peace. Not violence. Glory. Because that’s all they ever cared about. </p><p>“I wish it hadn’t taken this for you to stop.”</p><p>That’s all he has to say for tonight. It’s not much, especially for such a long journey, but Lars has learned not to overstay his welcome, in this place or with his memories in general. Maybe later, he will have more words. He does have so much to communicate. He wants to tell Sandoval about all the little kindnesses he knows now, all the things about Earth that he thought could only hurt. </p><p>For a place they wanted to escape so badly, it’s surprisingly beautiful. Even now, in the damp rain with the worst of his past beating down on him, he sees beauty. There is grass growing between the paths in this out of the place half world, and there are daisies in that grass. Those little spots of yellow aren’t washed away in the dull light. They are still here. He steps carefully, focusing to stay on the path, so he doesn’t tread on the flowers, even if he knows they’re durable. They can stand his weight. He doesn’t want to do damage. </p><p>There’s enough of that in this world already. There’s some he can’t avoid — there’s no path that isn’t right through the grass to the parking lot — but if he can, then he does. He reaches for the gate again. It stings, leaving his hand sizzling as he shoves it open and steps through quickly. He doesn’t hold onto it like he did when he first came here, hesitating to commit to open or close. He still hasn’t told Betsy that the iron burns. If he had, then she would’ve probably opened it for him, no questions asked. That’s what he likes about her, the no questions asked. </p><p>But not about this. Not yet. It’s a weakness, and they know too many of his already. He knows several of theirs too, which is strange, but that doesn’t make him any more inclined to share. They are vulnerable on purpose. Barring their throats to the rest of the world makes them strong, paradoxically, and one day, he might be ready for that. For now… he hides the pain, waiting for his flesh to return to normal. It only takes a few seconds, and it’s gone before the gate swings shut behind him. It was less than a second of touch. </p><p>He’s had worse, and most of that worse came from the captain memorialized here. </p><p>This isn’t forgiving, and it isn’t forgetting. Whatever Lars feels now, it’s not anywhere close to complete. The emotions in him rise and fall like waters trying desperately to reach up a cliff, always falling short of what they’re expected to be. He is not grieving, because grief is a celebration of the good in someone’s life. He is not happy either. </p><p>He approaches the car. It was painted red a couple of years ago, but the paint job is chipped in a couple of places. Betsy painted over them as best as she could, but the colors didn’t quite match, so those spots stand out. The license plate is a string of numbers and letters that are supposed to read something, but Lars doesn’t really get the language with some of the vowels missing. There are stickers all across the back, most of them various pieces of mercy for the Garages (the band) or the Garages (the team). There’s a couple of ones for the Pies, but those are pealed back or covered over. There’s an A with a circle around it too, a symbol he’s seen around a lot, but he’s too nervous to admit he’s not really sure what it’s for to ask. </p><p>Betsy rolls down the window in an awkward on and off again motion with pauses that seem to go on forever. </p><p>“You ready to go, angelface?” she asks, and he pictures her taking a drag as she says it, only to let out a cloud of smoke in his face. That’s what she would’ve done, only a couple of months ago. But he coughed over it, and it was scary, and she said he was a nerd, but she held him through the coughing fit, and she tried not to smoke around him. Instead, she just tries to follow her words with the appropriate signs. Her hands are slow and sloppy, nothing like some of the rest of their team, but she’s trying. </p><p>“I think so,” he signs back, one word at a time. She takes a bit to process all the symbols, double check them against her internal encyclopedia, and he thinks she might ask him to repeat. She just nods and pulls her feet down off the dashboard. Her left boot is unlaced, and Lars almost says something. It’s out of view too quickly, and she leans over to open the door for him. Two heavily worn friendship bracelets dangle on her wrist, over the dark black ink lines that stretch down and around her palm in abstract swirls. None on her middle finger. That’s a deliberate choice, though he’s not sure what it’s supposed to represent. He’s going to ask about her tattoos one day, for real. </p><p>Maybe the same day he’ll get up the nerve to ask how he could get his own. He likes the idea of taking back his own body, of marking it with something that nobody can take away, but it’s hard enough to exist in it for now, let alone claim it in such a big way. For now… he looks at Betsy and admires the freedom she has fought for, marks left by choice intwined with scars others left on her. She smirks at him as he gets in, a knowing look that suggests he’s in on a secret, and when she looks at him like that, cranberry lips tilted unevenly, he thinks he might very well be. </p><p> “Let’s get out of here, then. You’re going to melt like that.” Betsy raises a thick eyebrow, question in the statement even as she doesn’t hesitate and keeps every word sharp. Everything she says is a question, even as it’s a command. There’s always a challenge for him to say something contrary. Usually, he tries to follow her pattern, pushing back on the little things she says. Any other day, without the cold reaching for his core and the memories of Sandoval so close to the surface, he would say he wasn’t fragile. Right now?</p><p>He closes his eyes. All of them. There are ghosts of hands touching wings, stroking them one second and tugging feathers out the second, and he has to say thank you with that voice that isn’t his own, that he doesn’t want. Right now he is fragile. Even Betsy’s warmth, right next to him, can’t shake the ice that’s taking root in his chest like the seed of that tree in the Garden that these humans were cast out of so long ago, roots stretching throughout his body and pushing him into the Earth they were banished to. It is a prison and abandonment all at once. </p><p>He wasn’t good enough for Sandoval to come after him. They replaced him, just like they could replace a gear in one of their machines. He was never anything special, just their God’s wayward monster. He wasn’t good enough for them. He pulls his knees to his chest, pulls his wings tight, because he can have them now. He’s allowed to have them, and it feels wrong. Everything is wrong about him. </p><p>“Lars?” Betsy asks, taking a second to remember to also sign the words. She doesn’t need to— Lars can hear better than she can — but it’s good practice, to be able to better read his words. But he doesn’t have his words now. Not the way he wants them, because he’s not supposed to want at all. He hasn’t earned it. He misses them so much. He misses Heavensmaw like he’s always missed food, without even realizing how badly he was starving for it. Most days, he’s better than this — better than thinking it’s his fault Sandoval is dead. If he stayed behind, maybe he could’ve taken the umpire’s fire. That’s what he’s good for, taking things. </p><p>He doesn’t…</p><p>It’s not true. It’s not right, and the Garages say he should have better. They say to each other that the only one who can be blamed for the Umpires choices is the Umpires, even though he knows they think it’s a good thing that <i>his</i> Sandoval was caught in the flame. Especially if Lars thinks it could’ve been him. It is a good thing.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he signs. “Leave now?” </p><p>“Seatbelts first,” Betsy reminds, and he laughs a little bit, without making any noise. The shaking of his wings leaves droplets of water scattered across the car. She laughs a bit too, pulling her seatbelt on. It is funny, that she’s the safety minded one. He follows her cue. “I was trying some new recipes the other day. You’re going to try some of the results when we get back to my place, yeah? See if they’re any good.”</p><p>He nods. </p><p>“I am sure they will be amazing.”  </p><p>“You always say that.” </p><p>“It’s because it is always true.” </p><p>And they leave, because Lars can do that now. He can just leave.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the lars and sandoval in this are from the dark mirror universe, including the dark seattle corporates and heavensmaw moonrays. for those not familiar, the moonrays are arrogant and wish to become gods. as part of this plan, they kidnap a celestial -- lars taylor -- and convince him that he was banished for some unspeakable crime. he's with the garages in this because they rescued him from the moonrays.</p><p>no sunbeams were harmed in the creation of this fic, except emotionally.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>